


The Best Kind of Blade

by Catchclaw



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, Established Relationship, M/M, Pre-Series, Stanford Era, drunk!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-13
Updated: 2012-07-13
Packaged: 2017-11-09 21:08:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/458433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes Sam almost a year to learn how to sleep without a knife. And then Dean shows up at his dorm in the middle of the night and makes it all complicated again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Best Kind of Blade

**Author's Note:**

> A little piece of Stanford-era fluff with a side of angst.

It takes Sam almost a year to learn how to sleep without a knife.

For months, his hand slips under the pillow as he sleeps, fist closing, searching for something absent. And then he wakes up, flips the pillows over and scrabbles in earnest, convinced the thing had fallen behind the bed again and with his luck tonight would be the night that something made it past the salt line and sigils and that's when he remembers: oh yeah. He's not there, anymore. He's safe.

And somehow that never makes it easier to get back to sleep.

But by the end of freshman year, a year without monsters, he's learned enough to relax, to make it all the way to daybreak without waking up in a cold sweat.

Yeah. Hard-earned, that knowledge.

But it's also a year without Dean, and that's something that's harder accept. Harder to get used to.

But he does, slowly. Eventually.

After a while, his head stops flipping every time he hears AC/DC. His eyes stop locking onto every leather jacket that passes. He stops getting teary over pie.

He stops.

And then it's April, all of a sudden, finals coming down out of nowhere, projects and papers and three-hour exams and he doesn't have time to remember what he misses, then.

He forgets.

**

Then he wakes up at 2 AM on a Tuesday to a freaking drum corps on the dorm room door.

Kang is already up, staring in terror.

_BAM. BAM. BAM._

The noise gets louder, somehow, stays in rhythm, shakes the thing in its hinges.

_BAM. BAM. BAM._

Sam's hand goes for the knife, knowing it isn't there. Shaking.

Then:

"Sam," the door grunts. "Open this fucking door."

Kang's head swivels.

"Sam?" he croaks. "What is--?"

The door rattles.

"Saaaaaammm," it says again. It slurs.

Oh, Sam thinks. Fuzzy. Realizing. Ok.

He makes it to the door just as the banging starts again, and Dean's fist sticks in the wood as he stumbles, falls in a heap inside the room.

Kang makes a strangled noise.

"Who the fuck is that?" he manages.

Sam stands there, the light from the hall burning his freaking eyes. Watching Dean twitch in the doorway.

"He's my bro--" he starts.

"I'm his boyfriend!" Dean barks from inside the carpet.

Sam leaps back like he's been slapped and fuck, he can practically hear his roommate smirking over there, in the dark.

"OH," Kang says, a year's worth of "I KNEW IT" in his voice. "I see."

Dean rears up, silhouetted by the horrible fluorescent light and scowling, looking like something from beyond the grave.

"How about you give us some privacy?" he snarls. "Unless you wanna watch, kid."

Dimly, Sam watches Kang snag his blanket and bolt, sees the sneer that says the whole hall's gonna know about this by morning, aren't they? Watches Dean slam the door. Lock it.

Come for him.

Sam doesn't move, doesn't even flinch as Dean grabs him, pushes him into the wall. Shaking.

"Sam," he sighs. "Sammy."

His hands close around Sam's waist, possessive, and still, Sam doesn't do anything. Just stands there and lets Dean batter himself against Sam's body, his face tucked into Sam's neck, his fingers slipping under and stroking Sam's ribs.

Dean lifts his head, tries to push his liquor store of a mouth into Sam's and that's it. Enough.

His arms snap up and he grabs Dean's shoulders. Stops him.

"What do you want?" he says. Grateful that he can't see Dean's eyes.

Dean shudders. "You," he breathes, as if Sam didn't know. As if he'd forgotten.

As if he could.

He pushes his forehead into Dean's and they just stand there, for a while. Remembering how to breathe in sync.

"You're drunk," Sam says, finally.

Dean laughs. Ragged.

"No shit," he says. 

And Sam has like a thousand questions, like how you'd get in? And where have you been? And why the fuck are you here? But they'll still be there tomorrow.

If Dean is.

"Come on," he says, tugging. Lifting his head and nudging Dean away from the wall. Towards the bed. 

Dean slips over into sloppy, all the fight gone out of him now. Relaxed. Sam gets him out of his stupid coat, his shirts, his shoes. Dumps him in the sheets in his shorts and scrambles in after. Pushes his face into Dean's hair. His neck. Dean leans back into him, sighing, sweet and stone-cold drunk.

He falls asleep with "I love you" in his mouth and Dean in his arms and suddenly a year feels like a heartbeat, a skip of a step under his palm. 

Safe.


End file.
